


Not an Intern

by funsize



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: ALL the darcy, Angst, Awesome Darcy Lewis, Awesome Jarvis (Iron Man movies), BAMF Darcy Lewis, Darcy Feels, Darcy Lewis-centric, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Kidnapping, Misunderstandings, Oblivious Team, Psychological Torture, Shapeshifting, Shapeshifting Darcy Lewis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-11 22:20:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12945234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/funsize/pseuds/funsize
Summary: Overworked, underappreciated, and struggling with a secret, Darcy Lewis is starting to think she's unnecessary. Maybe it would be better if she just left . . .But she's sure she's still needed. Jane wouldn't survive a week without her. Right?. . . Right.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: insecurity, feelings of worthlessness, pancakes that don't get to be eaten
> 
> Enjoy!

_“Miss Lewis._

_Miss Lewis._

_Miss Lewis.”_

Darcy groaned, her face pressed against the lab table. “Ugh . . . go ‘way, Derek. S’not cake time yet,” she mumbled.

_“Miss Lewis, it is a quarter to 6. You are currently in lab three on the 76th floor of the Avengers Tower. You have been asleep for four hours. Dr. Foster is due to return in forty-five minutes.”_

“Huh? Wha’ . . . Crap!” Her head shot up, a paper stuck to her cheek. “Fell asleep in the lab again! Crap, crap, crap!” She peeled the paper off her face and hurriedly stacked it with the others that she had fallen asleep on, then grabbed her purse and ran to the nearest bathroom.

As she was washing her hands, Darcy examined her hair and makeup from the previous day in the mirror and sighed. Grabbing a fistful of paper towels, she wet them under the tap and dabbed at her eyeliner. Once she was satisfied with her makeup, she threw the towels in a nearby trash receptacle (which was way more fancy than any garbage can should be, but Tony Stark loved going overboard on everything). She shifted through her purse, then pulled out a brush and began working through her snarls.

“How’d I get bed-head when I didn’t sleep in an actual bed?” she muttered to herself, wincing.

It took Darcy five more minutes until she felt she was presentable enough. Stashing her brush back in her purse, she jogged out of the bathroom and headed back into the lab.

“J, what time is it?”

 _“5:52, Miss Lewis,”_ said JARVIS.

“Sweet. Thanks, J. Oh, and thanks for waking me up.”

 _“You’re welcome, Miss Lewis.”_ JARVIS replied.

She reached the lab table, plopping her purse on the floor, and picked up the papers she had fallen asleep on. Shuffling to the beginning, she began to examine them and frowned. Her handwriting had started off as her regular loopy font, but had grown increasingly illegible as she had dozed off. Darcy didn’t even remember half of what she had written.

“What are these even for?” she asked.

_“I believe they are Dr. Foster’s recent equations that she asked you to evaluate.”_

“From Tuesday? I thought I finished those last night!” she said, turning a paper over.

 _“No, these are from yesterday. You promised Dr. Foster that you would look over them for her_ _as long as–”_

“–she went to bed by midnight. Right, right,” she nodded. As Jane had grown increasingly dependent on Darcy’s ability to translate her frenzied Science (!) discoveries into legible reports, Darcy had found herself reviewing Jane’s notes even more frequently than she had in New Mexico or Tromsø. Which was saying something, considering the amount of Science (!) Jane had been doing in both locations.

Darcy squinted at a word, then set the papers down with a sigh. “It’s way too early to deal with my sucky handwriting right now. I need coffee.” Yawning widely, she ambled over to the elevator.

_“Miss Lewis?”_

Darcy stopped walking about two feet from the doors. “Yeah, JARVIS?”

_“I believe you left your iPod on the table.”_

“Oh. Thanks.” She went back to snatch her iPod from the table, then walked back to the elevator and got in. She jammed the button for the common floor, then leaned back against the wall and blew out gustily. Ugh. Mornings were the worst.

The elevator doors opened with a _ding!_ , depositing her on the common floor. It was right in the middle of the private floors, which housed the Avengers and their significant others (if they had one). Darcy was aware that she was neither, so she made do with a dingy one-room apartment on the Upper East side of Manhattan. Nothing compared to the lavishness of the Tower, but . . . well, it was all Darcy could afford. Scientist Wrangling did not a lot of money make.

However, she was good enough friends with Jane and Thor (and had passed enough background checks) that she was allowed onto the private floors to visit. She didn’t often use the privilege, not considering herself close enough to any of the Avengers, save maybe Thor, to visit the common floor very often and risk disrupting whatever routines they might have had. No need for the Black Widow to stab her in the dead of night just because Darcy ate her favorite brand of Oreos. Or whatever that woman ate.

Walking into the kitchen, Darcy made a beeline for the coffee pot. She wasn’t even going to try translating Science (!) without a morning cup, never mind attempt to deal with Jane. Unfortunately, the coffee maker seemed to have been smashed with what was likely a mythical Nordic hammer, judging from the sharp scent of ozone that lingered around the poor machine’s remains.

_Oh, Thor. Seriously, dude?_

Darcy shook her head, sighing, and pulled out her iPod, putting her earbuds in. She pressed the power button, but the screen remained blank. Oh, it better not be . . .

“JARVIS?” she said to the ceiling.

_“Yes, Miss Lewis?”_

“I forgot to charge my iPod ‘cause I fell asle _ep,_ didn’t I?”

 _“It appears to be so, Miss Lewis. Footage from last night seems to support this statement.”_ JARVIS sounded sympathetic.

She cursed, ripping her earbuds out and tossing her dead iPod on the counter. “Thanks, J. And didn’t I tell you to call me Darcy?”

_“Yes, Miss Lewis, you did.”_

Darcy waited a few seconds for JARVIS to say something else as she walked over to the fridge. Might as well make breakfast for herself, now that she was up here. No point going all the way back to her apartment, only to come right back to help Jane.

Pulling out a carton of eggs and setting it on the counter, along with a package of bacon and some pancake mix, she finally said, “Well, JARVIS?”

_“Yes, Miss Lewis?”_

“Aren’t you going to call me Darcy, like I asked you to?” she grunted, wrestling with the stubborn plastic of the bacon package. _Damn this stupid plastic,_ she thought, walking over to a drawer and beginning to root through it for some scissors.

_“No, Miss Lewis. It violates–”_

“–Sir’s protocols, which I do not have access to revoke, yeah, yeah,” Darcy grumbled, using scissors to cut open the package of bacon. She then bent over to pull out a frying pan from a cupboard.

 _“If you’ll pardon my saying so, Miss Lewis, it seems as though we have had this conversation before.”_ JARVIS sounded slightly amused.

“Shut up, J.” She smiled at the nearest sensor fondly.

The kitchen fell into a companionable silence, the delicious scent of bacon beginning to fill the air as Darcy started on the pancakes. Normally she would whip up the batter from scratch, but she was tired and unmotivated enough that she decided to use the mix instead. She did add a little extra milk, though.

After she had poured the first batch of pancakes onto the griddle, she took a moment to wipe her brow. Her arms were aching from stirring the batter. “Hey, J?”

_“Miss Lewis?”_

Darcy yawned as she walked over to check on the bacon. Damn, she wanted coffee. She was gonna murder Thor when she saw him. “What time is it now?” she said.

 _“5:59, Miss Lewis,”_ JARVIS replied.

“Hmm.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of hot pink tongs. “I might have to hurry, then.” Using the tongs, she flipped the sizzling bacon over. She moved the pieces around the pan a little, then put the tongs down and went over to the fridge, pulling out a carton of eggs. They were set on the counter while Darcy turned over the pancakes with the spatula. Once she had done so, she tugged out another pan and prepared to make scrambled eggs.

In this way, moving from frying bacon, to flipping pancakes, to cooking eggs, Darcy made herself breakfast. She finished filling her plate and turned away to grab some orange juice, then spun back to see Hawkeye stuffing his face with her breakfast. She hadn’t even heard him come in.

Darcy gaped at him for a moment. He paid no attention to her, frantically shoving forkfuls of eggs into his bulging cheeks. His hair was mussed and he had a bandage on his forehead. His clothing was rumpled and muddy. A gun belt lay on the counter, along with his bow and quiver.

At a particularly loud crunch from a bite of bacon, Darcy snapped her eyes off the weapons on the table and back to Hawkeye. She opened her mouth to protest.

“He hasn’t eaten for thirty-three hours,” said a cool voice at her ear.

She yelped and whirled around, meeting the green-eyed gaze of the Black Widow. Pressing her hand on her chest, she tried to get her breathing under control. They stared at each other for a moment as Darcy attempted to slow her racing heartbeat through sheer will. She blinked first when the woman’s words finally reached her brain.

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, okay, that’s cool. Super spies over lowly assistant anytime.” She cautiously smiled at the Black Widow and was gratified to see a small smirk on her face. “So.” Darcy looked away, clearing her throat. “You’re a super spy too. Want breakfast? I have extra.” She walked over to a cupboard and pulled out a plate, holding it out to the Black Widow questioningly.

_Am I seriously offering an assassin bacon? I’m so dead. She’s gonna kill me. Murdered by the Black Widow for suggesting breakfast. What a way to die. What’s Jane going to–_

“Yes.”

Darcy blinked. “Wait, really?” _Damn, I said that out loud._

The Black Widow looked amused. “The mission was very long.” She reached out and took the plate from Darcy’s outstretched hand, then glided over to the stove and began to fill it with eggs and bacon.

“You may want to cook some more,” she said to Darcy without turning around. “The others are also tired and hungry. They will be here soon, looking for food.”

Darcy shook her head. How was this her life? “Yeah. Yeah sure, I can make more food,” she replied, setting her orange juice on the counter and going back to the fridge.

She was mixing a large bowl of pancake batter when she heard a loud groan behind her. She turned to see Hawkeye looking forlornly at the smashed coffee maker, the Black Widow leaning against the counter and smirking at him through a bite of pancake. He glanced up at Darcy.

“No coffee?” he whined. “Seriously? I so hate my life.” He looked sorrowfully at the coffee maker, then back at her. “Who did this? Thor?”

“Probably. Looks like his work. Smells like it, too.” She shrugged and went back to stirring the batter. “There’s orange juice on the counter, if you want.”

She heard him groan again. “But juice doesn’t have caffeine. I’m gonna _murder_ Thor.”

Darcy wasn’t sure whether he was joking, but . . . “I will fully support you in that, since you’ll probably be able to do it better than I could. Didn’t get my coffee today, either, thanks to that jerk.” She grinned at him as she carried the bowl over to the griddle and started to pour the batter.

“Jerk’s too kind of a word for him.” Hawkeye threw out several other choice names for the god of thunder as he went to grab the orange juice. Darcy had to suppress a snicker at some of them. He probably didn't mean it to be funny, after all.

A phone chimed. The Black Widow pulled it out and checked it, then set her half-eaten meal down and beckoned Hawkeye to follow her out the door. “Hill wants debriefing,” she told him.

“Wha’ ‘bout th’ others?” he whined, crunching on another piece of bacon.

“Already debriefed. She just barely missed us. Come on, you can gorge yourself more later.” The Black Widow grasped Hawkeye’s collar and dragged him to the elevator, ignoring his complaints.

Darcy watched the pair with amusement until the doors closed. Then she pulled her attention back to the meal she was cooking. The kitchen felt emptier when it was just Darcy.

“But there’s always JARVIS,” she said aloud to herself, cracking an egg into a pan.

_“You are most kind, Miss Lewis.”_

“Anytime, J.”

It was another five minutes before Darcy’s solitude was interrupted. The elevator doors opened and three men came limping out. She set her spatula down and watched as Dr. Banner immediately went over to the table and collapsed on a chair, burying his head in his arms. Captain America took a seat next to him, but remained stiffly upright. Darcy nodded to both of them before taking a running leap into Thor’s arms. His booming laugh filled the room as he swung her around a couple of times and set her down.

“Hey, Thunder Brother!” she said, beaming at him. “How was the mission, dude?”

Thor chuckled, going over to a cupboard and rummaging through it. “Long and tiring, Lightning Sister. We are all quite weary.”

“Well, good thing I made us all breakfast, huh?” she chirped as she went back to putting eggs onto four plates.

Captain America visibly perked up, turning to look at her. “Breakfast?”

Darcy’s answer was to slide a heaping plate of food towards him. “Eat up, Captain. I would’ve offered you coffee, but _someone_ —” She threw Thor a half-teasing glare. “—destroyed the coffee maker. _Thor_.”

“Verily, I am sorry, Darcy,” said Thor, giving her a puppy dog look. “My anger got the better of me, I’m afraid. The Man of Iron’s machines are quite difficult to operate.”

“Yeah, well, next time ask someone for help, okay?” she said to him over her shoulder as she watched the Captain scarf down the food she had given him, momentarily mesmerized by the flexing of his strong jaw.

She shook herself and turned to see Thor already devouring his meal. Without a fork. Darcy considered giving him one, but he looked so famished that she couldn’t bear to tear him away from his food. So instead she picked up one of the last two plates and took it over to Dr. Banner.

The doctor didn’t respond when she set the plate next to his head, so Darcy poked him a couple of times. Then she realized who she was poking ( _Hulk!_ ) and stepped back as Dr. Banner lifted his head. Luckily he didn’t seem angry, just bemused.

“Hmm? What’s this?” He took the fork she held out to him and prodded at a pancake. “Breakfast?”

“Yep,” she replied. “Courtesy of Darcy Lewis, breakfast chef extraordinaire.” She gave him a cheeky grin and moved to get her own food. She was about to bite into her pancake when–

_“Miss Lewis, Dr. Foster requires your aid in lab three immediately.”_

Darcy cursed, throwing down the fork she had just picked up and running to the elevator. JARVIS obligingly opened the doors for her, then, once she was inside, took the elevator down to the correct floor.

Bursting through the lab doors, Darcy was greeted, not with an explosion or wormhole as she expected, but with a frazzled Jane running her fingers distractedly through her hair in front of a math-covered whiteboard. She turned around as Darcy entered.

“Darcy! Thank goodness! Come here, quick!” Jane motioned Darcy over frantically.

“What is it, Jane? What’s happened?” Darcy demanded, running over.

“This!” Jane gestured broadly at the whiteboard. “This happened!”

Darcy looked at the whiteboard. Blinked. The squiggly lines didn’t change. She looked at Jane, who was watching her expectantly. “Um, Jane, you know I don’t speak Math.”

Jane let out an exasperated sigh. “Darcy, come on. Even an ungraduated political science intern can tell the difference between an inverse function and a polynomial function! What does that look like to you?” She motioned to the whiteboard again.

Darcy felt a stab of hurt from Jane’s words. _It’s true. I am just an ungraduated political science intern,_ she thought. She pushed her sadness aside and plastered on a fake smile as she looked at the board again. “Sorry, Jane, but I really don’t see . . . whatever it is I’m supposed to be seeing. Wanna explain?”

Jane groaned, running her fingers through her hair. “No. If you don’t see it, there’s no point. Just go ask Tony if he can look this over for me, will you? And where are my equations from last night? Did you go over them?”

“One, okay, two, over there on the table, and three, sorry, but I fell asleep about halfway through,” Darcy said, pointing to where the papers lay as she walked over to the elevator. “I’ll finish them when I get back from fetching To–Stark.”

“Fine, fine. I guess I did keep you up past midnight.” Jane glanced at Darcy guiltily. “Sorry about that.”

Darcy entered the elevator. “No worries, boss lady!” she called back breezily as the doors closed. As her view of Jane was cut off, she let the fake smile drop off her face. She sighed and leaned back against the wall of the elevator. “Wherever Stark is, J.”

_“Very well, Miss Lewis.”_

She didn’t know why Jane’s remark had cut her so deeply. After all, it was completely true. Darcy was just a regular, ungraduated intern. She was nothing special, not compared to the heroes and geniuses that surrounded her. There was nothing she could offer that anyone needed. Yes, Jane had relied on Darcy in New Mexico to go over her equations, make sure she ate and slept, and didn’t drink too much coffee, but Jane had Thor now, along with as many assistants as she could want. Darcy honestly had no idea why Jane still kept her around. She was practically worthless.

Darcy shook her head angrily. No! She _wasn’t_ worthless! Even though she couldn’t afford anything other than a dingy one-room apartment. Even though she wasn’t a genius like Jane and Tony and Bruce, or gorgeous like Pepper and Natasha, or amazingly brave like Clint and Steve and Thor. Even though she was only average. Even though she had never saved a life or done anything worthwhile. Even though she would never be a hero, not like the Avengers were.

 _Wow, great pep talk, Darcy,_ she thought bitterly to herself, screwing her eyes shut as a tear slipped down her cheek. She furiously wiped it away, hoping JARVIS hadn’t noticed.

No such luck.

 _“Is everything all right, Miss Lewis?”_ JARVIS asked, a note of concern in his smooth voice.

Darcy hid a sniff in a fake sneeze. “Peachy, J.” She wiped her nose and eyes. “Just allergies. No worries.”

_“Are you certain, Miss Lewis? It seemed as though you were distressed.”_

She laughed, hoping it didn’t sound fake. “Nah, I’m fine. Allergies, only four hours of sleep, you know. I’m just a little out of sorts. Don’t worry about it.”

 _“If you’re certain, Miss Lewis.”_ JARVIS sounded skeptical, but let the matter go.

Darcy smiled at a sensor and straightened up. She took a deep breath, shoving her emotions aside. The elevator doors opened and she strode out into Stark’s workshop.

A blast of loud music hit her ears, but she ignored it as she made her way over to where Stark was tinkering on his workbench. She stopped about five feet away from him and cleared her throat.

He ignored her.

“JARVIS?” Darcy asked, looking up. “Mind helping me out a little?”

The music immediately quieted. Stark looked up, and although Darcy couldn’t see his face, she was pretty sure he was frowning.

“JARVIS, I thought I told you to crank it up, not turn it down.”

_“My apologies, Sir, but you have a visitor and I thought it would only be polite.”_

“I didn’t program you to be polite,” Stark grumbled, turning around to face Darcy with a heavy sigh, but flashed her his trademark grin. “Oh, it’s you. Girl with a rack. What do you want?”

She refused to let his remark get to her ( _“girl with a rack,” really, was that all he saw in her?_ ) and took a deep breath. “Mr. Stark, I’m here with a request from Dr. Foster--”

“Oh, that’s right, you’re her inter,” he interrupted, twirling a screwdriver. “Gotta say, Tits, you don’t look like any intern I’ve ever seen. Especially not like one working for a genius astrophysicist.” He used the screwdriver to gesture at her chest, and Darcy bristled. (Inwardly she was wilting, but she couldn’t let Stark see that, not if she wanted him to take her seriously.)

“I’m actually her assistant. Surprise.” Her voice was breezy. “Anyway, Dr. Foster wants you to look over some equations for her. Functions. Something like that.” She hesitated, then added, “At your earliest possible convenience.”

Stark sighed. “Geez, you sound like Pepper. Not in the good way either, no offense.”

Darcy tried not to let her smile be too brittle. “Not at all, Mr. Stark. Is that a yes?”

“Ugh, stop calling me that. And grab me a coffee, will you, Tits?” He turned back to his workbench.

She blinked. “Um, I’m not your assistant. I’m Jane’s. Remember? Also,” she couldn’t keep the annoyance out of her voice, “You haven’t answered my question.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, will do,” he mumbled, waving a screwdriver absentmindedly. “But you gotta get me a coffee, first.”

“Again, _Jane’s_ assistant, not Tony Stark’s.”

“Yeah, but you’re just an intern.”

Darcy flinched behind his back. “Assistant.”

“Right, right. But you don’t even have a science degree!” Stark paused for a moment, his hands stilling. “. . . no offense, but political science really doesn’t count. She’ll be fine without you for like however long it takes you to get me a coffee. Plus,” his voice took on a joking tone, “You know how many people would _pay_ to buy Iron Man coffee? Don’t answer that. Point is, I want coffee, you’re the nearest person available, and you’re not doing anything else anyway. Before you ask, JARVIS’ll tell Foster I’ll help her with her stuff. Won’t you, JARVIS?”

_“Yes, Sir. Already done, Sir.”_

“There, see? So. Coffee. Go. Now. Shoo.”

Darcy wasn’t sure she would be able to talk without her voice quavering, so she nodded woodenly, turned sharply on her heel, and left.

By the time she was at the lobby (after going all the way up to the kitchen before remembering the destroyed coffeemaker), her hurt feelings had transformed into anger.

“Stupid asshole Stark, calling me an intern, _‘get me coffee, Tits, I’m Iron Man!’_ Asshole,” she mumbled under her breath, pushing the door open with unnecessary force. “Screw Jane, too. _‘Sorry, but you’re just an ungraduated political science intern who doesn’t know how to do any kind of math even though you’ve spent like two years around an astrophysicist helping her with basically everything,’_ ” she said in a high falsetto, ignoring the strange looks from passerby. “I mean, I don’t understand it, but whatever. Gah. They’re both just--gah. I’m just a _damn errand girl!_ ” Her nails dug into her palms. Her strangely sharp, elongated nails. Darcy stopped walking and looked down at her hands. Four identical tiny cuts oozed blood on both of her palms. Dammit. She had lost control again. Taking a deep breath, she forced her nails to return to normal, slowly uncurling her fists.

Darcy sighed, her anger dissipating slowly. _Maybe I should just leave._ The thought came into her head suddenly. She stopped on the sidewalk, ignoring the irritated grumbles from those behind her. Where the hell had _that_ come from? She didn’t want to leave Jane. The scientist needed her. Didn’t she?

“Of course she does,” she told herself, starting to walk again. “Jane wouldn’t get any food or sleep without me. She’d just eat Pop-tarts and collapse from exhaustion every 48 hours.” Darcy nodded decisively. “Worry about your job later, Darcy. Now worry about Stark’s coffee. Rich basta- _mmph_!”

A gloved hand clamped over her mouth as she was yanked by her hoodie into an adjoining street. _More of an alley, really,_ she thought distantly, struggling uselessly against the beefy arm that encircled her waist.

She stomped hard on the foot of her assailant, but they only tightened their arm around her, dragging her further into the alley. She opened her mouth to bite the hand covering it, but as soon as she did, a thick cloth was shoved roughly into her mouth, and another one with a sickly sweet smell pressed against her nose, covering her eyes. The cloying stench clogged her nostrils, forcing itself down her throat. Darcy gagged and struggled, instinctively trying to pull away from the smelly rag, but the grip on her hoodie was too strong.

Spots dotted her vision and then blurred into blackness. Distantly, she felt herself go limp. Her last thought was: _Of all the days to leave my taser at home._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: some language (not a lot, but some)
> 
> Enjoy!

“Tony, have you seen Darcy anywhere?”

“Nope. She said she was going to bring me coffee, but she never did. JARVIS probably told her not to. Damn interfering AI.”

_“More coffee is the last thing you need sir, but no, I did not tell her not to bring more.”_

“Yeah? Then where’s my coffee?”

“Stark, Darcy’s _my_ assistant! You can’t just send her—”

“Look, she was the first person I saw, okay? And isn’t she your intern?”

_“‘Intern’ is the term you used to refer to her earlier today, Doctor Foster.”_

“Well, that was an accident. She’s not my intern. I offered her a position as my assistant when we came to New York. I couldn’t keep her as an unpaid intern, Stark, she deserves a salary.”

“I never said she didn’t—”

_“Excuse me for the interruption, Sir and Doctor Foster, but there appears to be a slight problem.”_

“J, you sound worried. What’s up?”

_“None of my sensors have detected Darcy Lewis since 6:20 this morning.”_

_“What?!_ That was three hours ago! Where the hell did you send her?”

“I thought she would just go upstairs!”

_“Sir, the kitchen coffee maker is currently unavailable. It seems Master Odinson had a small altercation with it.”_

“Foster, your boyfriend smashed my coffee maker again, and you’re mad at _me?”_

“He didn’t mean to! And I had no idea it was smashed. You know I go up there less than you do.”

“No, I didn’t know. Believe it or not, Foster, I don’t keep track of everything you do. I’m not Thor.”

_“If you’ll pardon my interruption, my security footage shows Miss Lewis leaving the Tower at approximately 6:17. I would hazard a guess that it was to get your coffee.”_

“Well, it’s taken her an awfully long time to get your coffee, Stark. Where’s the nearest coffee shop, JARVIS?”

_“The nearest is a Starbucks, about a block away.”_

“Then where the hell is she?”

“Why isn’t she back yet?”

_“I cannot answer that, Doctor Foster. Would you like me to search traffic cameras for her?”_

“Go ahead. She’s probably at her apartment.”

“Wait, Lewis has an apartment? Where? Why did nobody tell me this?”

“Believe it or not, Stark, I don’t tell you everything. I'm not Pepper.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Foster. You’re too short. Why doesn’t she live at the Tower? With you and Thor?”

“I . . . it never came up. We moved in and everything was so busy, you know, seeing Thor again, and she didn’t say anything. I didn’t even think about asking her where she’s staying until last week. That’s when she told me about her apartment. I think it’s in Brooklyn?”

“Brooklyn? That’s a hell of a commute. You sure about that, Foster?”

“. . . no. I think she told me, but I was kind of zoned out. New data from Asgard. You know how it is.”

“Damn right I do. Just ask Pepper. But why would she go to her apartment when she was already gonna come back here?”

“I don’t know. She’s in the labs with me basically all day, so . . . I don’t know.”

“You got anything, JARVIS?”

_“Traffic cameras show no sign of Miss Lewis at her apartment, which is on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, since yesterday.”_

“Huh. So, not Brooklyn then.”

“Stark, this is serious! Darcy hasn’t ever disappeared before. Oh, God, what if she’s been kidnapped?”

“Calm down, Foster. I’m sure she’s got a perfectly logical explanation for this. You watch. Any second now she’ll stroll right in and—”

_“Sir, security footage outside the Tower shows her turning onto 42nd Street, but traffic cameras on that street appear to have been fed a loop for the next fifteen minutes.”_

“JARVIS, are you saying—”

_“Sometime within those fifteen minutes, Darcy Lewis seems to have disappeared.”_

“Oh, God.”

“J, gimme the footage. Let me see it.”

“Oh my God. I can’t believe it. Darcy.”

“Crying isn’t going to solve anything, Foster. We’ve got to figure out who—”

“Don’t you _dare_ talk down to me, Stark! It’s your fault she’s gone! If you weren’t such a stuck-up, pompous ass who couldn’t be bothered to get your own damn coffee, Darcy would still be here! It’s your fault!”

_“Doctor Foster.”_

“Look, Jane, I—”

“Just—just stop, JARVIS. Tony. Stop. I can’t—I can’t lose her. Darcy’s my—she’s all I have left. Oh, _God.”_

“Jane. We’ll find her.”

_“Indeed, Doctor Foster.”_

“Y-you’d better, or so help me, Stark . . . I’m—I’m going to find Thor. Maybe he can talk to Heimdall, or . . . God, I don’t know. I’ve got to do something. This is all my fault.”

“Jane . . . ah, shit. Keep an eye on her, J. We don’t want her wandering Times Square shouting Darcy’s name.”

_“Of course, Sir.”_

“She’s right though.”

_“Sir?”_

“It is my fault. No, don’t say anything, J, you know it is.”

_“I wasn’t going to, Sir.”_

“Sure you weren’t. Here, pull up footage from 5th Avenue. We’ll find her. We’ve got to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. First of all, thankyouthankyouthankyou for all the kind comments! I read each and every one of them, even if I didn't respond. I may have squealed out loud. A lot. Just, thank you. So much.
> 
> Also, sorry about the long wait. I worked all of December and most of January on the rough draft of the next chapter, but it just wasn't working very well. Writer's block, lack of motivation, life, et cetera. For a while I wasn't sure if I could finish it, or if I even wanted to. I had a rough idea of the original story in my head, but by the end of January, I just didn't like it. So, after talking it over with my beta (who is also my bestest friend ever), I completely rewrote my outline and started over on the second chapter, which is what you read above. This is also why the story is no longer three chapters long. I'm not sure how long it will be, but it's definitely more than I originally planned. There will also be way more characters/cameos than originally planned, so that's exciting.
> 
> Sorry about the blathering, but I wanted you to know why it took me so long, and why the chapter number changed. I don't know if you really wanted/needed the explanation, but there you have it. Again, thank you so much for the support. :)
> 
> If you would like to leave a comment, please do. I'll try to do better at replying to them. :D


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Panic attacks (two), strong language, verbal abuse, psychological torture, mentions of torture
> 
> If reading a panic attack might trigger you, DON'T READ. There's a summary of the chapter at the bottom you can read instead. The chapter isn't all just a panic attack, other stuff happens too, but be careful if you decide to read anyway. Please be safe!
> 
> I hope you like it! Enjoy!

“Ugggh.”

Darcy opened her eyes.

And immediately closed them.

“Agh. Bright. Why.”

Her head throbbed worse than a bad hangover. And she had had a lot of hangovers. Especially recently. In New Mexico, Darcy and Jane had spent many a girl’s night nursing bad tequilas and complaining about their absent love lives. She had used Jane as a tool to keep her from drinking too much—when Jane fell asleep, Darcy needed to stop drinking. Easy way to keep the hangovers from getting too bad.

But now . . . well, Jane had Thor. She didn’t need girl’s nights anymore. And Darcy was happy for her, she really was. But, well, it was hard, moving across the country to live in a giant building full of people who were better qualified than she was. Having a job only because of Jane. And it wasn’t that Jane had specifically _asked_ for Darcy to stay, it was really that Jane had just _assumed_ that Darcy was coming with her and built her plans around that assumption.

Not that Darcy wouldn’t have come with Jane! But it would have been nice to, you know, be given a say in the matter. Lately it felt as though Darcy hadn’t had a choice in anything. Ever since signing up for the internship, she had been dragged along in Jane’s wake. Darcy hadn’t even been able to finish her degree! And while working at Stark Tower had come with a nice salary, she still had student loans. And rent on her apartment, because living in New York was not cheap. Not to mention the cost of just living. Food, clothes, toiletries . . . it all added up.

So, yes, Darcy may have been drinking a bit more lately, and it may have stung a little—well, a lot—that Jane couldn’t be bothered to spend just one night getting drunk with her and listening to Darcy rant, even though Darcy had been Jane’s friend a hell of a lot longer than Thor, and listened to plenty of Jane’s drunken ramblings about Thor in between Puente Antiguo and New York, and been a supportive friend to Jane even when she found out she wouldn’t be allowed to finish her degree until SHIELD gave her permission!

No, she wasn’t bitter. Not at all.

Thinking about it was only making her headache worse, so Darcy distracted herself by muttering increasingly inventive curses under her breath as she waited for the pounding in her skull to subside. She couldn’t say how long it was before she could finally move her head without feeling like it was going to explode, but five minutes or five hours later, Darcy carefully blinked her eyes open, waited for them to adjust to the bright white light, and stared at what was before her.

The blank ceiling was not interesting to stare at.

Her vision was blurry for some reason, so she couldn’t tell whether the surface was steel or concrete, only that it was white with moderately bright fluorescent lights. Moving gingerly, not wanting to trigger another headache, she hoisted herself to a sitting position and discovered that she was on a narrow cot. White sheets to match the white ceiling and white walls. She swung her legs over the side of the cot and looked down. And white carpet.

Even the jumpsuit she was wearing was completely white. Darcy plucked at a sleeve and wrinkled her nose. Ew. If she was in a jumpsuit instead of the clothing she had been wearing before, then that meant they must have undressed her.

Wait . . . who was “they?!” What was she doing here? Where the hell was here? Why the hell was she here? What the _goddamn hell_ was going on???

White. Everywhere. Like . . . like an asylum. An asylum! Oh, God, what if it had all been a dream? Jane, Thor, the Avengers. Just a dream. What if she was crazy? In a coma? Locked up for her own safety? For the safety of others?

No, no, no. She wasn’t crazy. She wasn’t. There was absolutely no way in hell she’d have been able to dream up everything that had happened. It was just too vivid. Too many details. Darcy could have never in a million years been able to imagine an alien prince crash landing in the desert, much less imagine herself tasing him. It had to be real. It had to.

It _had_ to.

. . . But then, where was she? The memories from the alley came flooding back. The faceless arms that had grabbed her, tight, bruisingly tight, dragging her into darkness as the sickly sweet stench had overwhelmed her. Kidnapped. She had been kidnapped.

Oh, God, she had been kidnapped.

Darcy felt a sharp pain in her chest. She became abruptly aware that she was breathing fast and shallow, hyperventilating. Panicking. Her eyes stung and felt wet. She was crying. Silently, because she couldn’t get enough air to sob. Gasping, gagging, choking on air that refused to come.

She needed to calm down. Closing her eyes—although the bright white light continued to stab through her eyelids—she forced herself to breathe evenly in the pattern she had taught herself after New Mexico, when she had first started waking up in the middle of the night in a heaving sweat—breathe in for four seconds, hold her breath for seven, let it out for eight. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. Four, seven, eight. Four, seven, eight. Breathe, Darcy, _breathe_ . . . God, she couldn’t breathe. Four, seven, eight. Four, seven, eight. It wasn’t working! She couldn’t _goddamn breathe!_

Darcy couldn’t, she couldn’t believe it. Kidnapped. Held in this blank white cell for . . . for what? Ransom? Information? Revenge? She couldn’t believe that anyone would want to kidnap her. Darcy was just an intern. No, not an intern. Jane’s assistant. Just a lowly assistant. Not worth kidnapping. Not that her kidnappers knew that, apparently. Unless . . . they knew about her shifting. Then what? Was she gonna be a test subject? Human experimentation?

No, no, there was absolutely no way in hell they had figured it out. Only one person had ever managed to do that, and he was a Norse god. Or space alien, technically, but whatever. Darcy had kept her shifting a secret her whole damn life. Hell, she hadn’t even fully shifted since New Mexico, at night in the middle of the desert, with literally no living person around for miles! Had it really been that long? She should probably start thinking about shifting again sometime soon, relieve some of the pressure . . .

Besides, if they had figured it out, she would already be strapped to an operating table, right? Right?

Yeah . . . right.

_Great, not helpful, Darcy. Stop monologuing while you’re hyperventilating. You can monologue after you calm down._

_Talking to yourself is the first sign of madness._

_Shut up._

Her breathing was starting to slow, the mantra still repeating in her head. Four, seven, eight. In, hold, out. In, hold, out. Four, seven, eight. She could breathe. She was breathing. She was going to be okay.

Yeah. She would _totally_ be okay while she was being kidnapped and trapped in a prison cell! Totally okay! Peachy!

_God, Darcy, this is not the time for sarcasm!_ she sternly told herself.

Darcy let out a shuddery laugh at her own horrible sense of humor, the last of her panic ebbing away.

“Damn,” she said out loud, falling back onto the mattress and staring up at the ceiling. “I’m a mess.”

Darcy closed her eyes, took a few deep breaths, made sure she wasn’t going to panic again, wiped the tears from her face, opened her eyes again, and sat up.

“Okay, Darcy. You’ve got this,” she said with as much confidence as she could muster. “Kidnapped. Great. Now what?”

Now what?

Darcy knew she was totally unprepared for the situation she found herself in, and it terrified her. But she couldn’t panic again. So, what could she do?

She cast back in her memory to the last spy movie she watched. What was it called, Taken? No, that was the other one. The name didn’t matter, anyway. Normally when the protagonist was kidnapped, they woke up tied to a wooden chair in a drafty warehouse, but there was no chair and no warehouse where Darcy was. Just white.

Lame.

Anyway. What could she do? She reached absentmindedly to adjust her glasses, but they weren’t there. That . . . explained some things, actually. Why everything was blurry. Not from her tears, as she had thought, but from her nearsightedness.

A word floated into her mind. _Recon_. Darcy’s eyes widened. Recon! Of course! Before the spies in the movies could escape, they had to evaluate their surroundings, do recon. She wasn’t exactly sure what “recon” stood for, but it seemed like a good idea. She thought it meant look around, check out surroundings, that sort of thing. Which was something she could do.

Right. Look around. Darcy could do that. Easy. Just stand up, walk around, check her cell out, see what there was, and so on. Yeah. She had this. Just stand up. Just . . . stand . . . up.

She frowned down at her unresponsive legs. _Come on already, move. Why aren’t you moving._ Oh, great, they’d fallen asleep.

With a grunt, she swung her legs over the side of the cot and rested her feet on the floor, bare toes flexing in the carpet. She waited for the tingling in her legs to stop, then carefully stood up. Her legs wobbled a bit, but she was steady enough.

She looked up and gazed around the room. Everything was fuzzy, but she could tell there was a toilet and basin in one corner and a small white box in another, with the blurry outline of a door on the wall opposite the cot she had woken up on. She squinted at a dark smudge in the left upper corner next to the door, the only non-white thing in the room besides herself. Camera, she guessed, but with her glasses gone, she couldn’t tell for sure. The white blended together, so Darcy couldn’t tell the exact size of any of the objects, except the camera, which she estimated was about the size of a fire detector. Who knows, the toilet could’ve belonged in a dollhouse, for all she knew.

“Boring,” Darcy said aloud, directing her words to the camera. “Seriously, you guys ever heard of color? The stuff in rainbows? Roy G. Biv?” She licked her lips, which were uncomfortably dry. Dehydration, probably. Crying hadn’t helped any. In fact, it had probably made it worse. It also explained the throbbing headache that had begun to creep up on her. But although talking was uncomfortable, it gave her something to do in order to keep her mind off her situation (and kept her from panicking again), so she kept up a steady stream of blather as she walked over to inspect the box.

“But, like, would it have killed you to add just one accent color?” The box turned out to be a small chest, so she hooked her fingers—her bright pink nail polish had been scrubbed away, she noticed—under the lid and lifted it up. Darcy peered inside and snorted. “Granola bars, huh? Oh, no, wait,” she pulled out one of the rectangular packages and inspected it, “Just regular food bars. Hopefully they’re not poisoned. Bland, probably, but thanks for not starving me. I mean,” she said, tossing the food bar back into the chest and closing the lid before walking over to the door. “You did kidnap me first, so. Still on my shit list.”

She peered at the door, running her fingers over the smooth white metal. No lock, no handle, no way to get out, it looked like. Reinforced. Not that she could tell for sure without her glasses. Maybe there was a tiny little keyhole that she just couldn’t see. Gah, nearsightedness was the worst. Darcy could always shift her eyes into ones with perfect 20/20 vision, but she would have to focus the entire time since it was only one body part, not her entire self. Not to mention that it was an absolutely horrible idea to shift any part of herself with the camera watching. She was pretty certain they didn’t know about her ability, and she intended to keep it that way.

_Oh my gosh, Darcy, stop being so dramatic,_ she scolded herself, rolling her eyes. Out loud she said, “You guys don’t expect me to take a dump with you watching me, do you? Because seriously, dude. Gross. No way.” Damn, she already hated it here. Toilet, basin, food bars, cot, reinforced door . . . how long were they planning to keep her here?

Darcy shook her head. _Not gonna think about that._ She walked over to the toilet and basin, moistened her dry lips, then said, “You know, I can’t actually tell if you guys can hear me, or if you’re just watching me jabber to thin air. If it turns out I’m only talking to myself, then damn. I’ll feel kind of stupid once I get out of here.”

She turned the faucet and sighed in relief when water came pouring out. Thank Thor. Something to drink. She stuck her head under the faucet and greedily gulped down the cool, refreshing liquid. When her thirst was quenched, she pulled away and wiped her mouth.

“Well, that’s better,” she remarked.

Hands on hips, Darcy looked around the room one more time, checking to see if there was anything she had missed. To her nearsighted eyes, there didn’t seem to be anything else in the room that she hadn’t already looked at. Besides, it wasn’t as if she was going to be here for much longer.

“You guys do know that this whole thing is pointless, right?” she said to the camera. “Like, seriously. How long do you think it’s gonna be before the Avengers show up to rescue me? At the most, forty-eight hours,” she answered her own question. “And then I’ll be out of here. Sayonara, bitches.” She blew a kiss at the camera as she moved over to sit on the cot.

Darcy bounced lightly on the thin mattress for a few seconds, then froze as a thought occurred to her. She swallowed. “A-and whatever . . . torture you have planned for me—” she said, suppressing a shiver. “—won’t work. No way in hell I’m telling you anything.” She paused, considering. “Fucking bastards,” she finished, then gave a decisive nod and bared her teeth at the camera. Then she felt stupid and stopped, but in lieu of grinning like a crazy person, lifted her hands and raised her middle finger towards the camera.

Feeling somewhat better, Darcy lowered her hands and fell back against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling. A sudden wave of exhaustion fell over her. “Ugh,” she groaned. She closed her eyes. Maybe she would rest, just for a minute, then she would get up and explore the cell more thoroughly. Eat a food bar. Something.

But . . . in a minute. After she rested.

Just for a minute.

 

. . .

 

She woke up refreshed, but itchy. Like something was crawling underneath her veins. Pressure. Not painful, exactly, but uncomfortable.

The need to shift.

It had increased exponentially from when she had fallen asleep. Damn. The last time she had repressed shifting for so long, she had been, what, thirteen? Right between childhood innocence and teenage awkwardness, when her greatest dream was to be just like everybody else. She had mistakenly thought that repressing her ability, refusing to use it, would make it go away. Yeah, no. Instead, the pressure had just built up, slowly at first, but once a month had passed without her making the smallest shift, it had exploded. Metaphorically exploded, but it got so bad that by the end of six weeks Darcy was in convulsions. If her grandma hadn’t figured out what was going on and forced Darcy to shift . . . well, it wouldn’t have ended well.

The point was, the longer she waited to shift, the greater the pressure would build, the sicker she would become, and when she eventually did shift, it would be explosive. Shifting only the color of her eyes, or turning her fingers into claws, wouldn’t be enough, and it would take so much concentration to shift only a single body part that it would defeat the purpose. At this point, the only way Darcy would be able to get rid of the pressure completely would be to shift her entire self. She could probably stay human, but she’d have to have different features, different hair, different height . . .

But the camera. She looked up at it. The microphone. Darcy couldn’t, she couldn’t shift because they would _see_ her, and she had nowhere to hide, nowhere to release the pressure safely. Maybe she could try and relieve the pressure a little bit, like changing her eye color while they were closed, so the camera wouldn’t see, but she would have to stay conscious for a little change like that, and then they would wonder why she wasn’t sleeping, even though she was lying down, and then they would come in, and then they would catch her shifting, and they would drag her away, and strap her down to an operating table, and she can’t shift, she can’t shift, can’t shift,  _can’t shift_ —

Breathe, Darcy! Calm the fuck down!

In, hold, out. Four, seven, eight. She was not having another panic attack. _Pull yourself together,_ she told herself fiercely. _Stop being such a coward!_

She ran her fingers through her hair in frustration as she continued to force herself to breathe deeply. In, hold, out. Four, seven, eight. “Keep it together, Darcy, keep it together,” she muttered to herself.

Her rational mind was slowly overtaking her panic. She didn’t need to worry. She wasn’t going to be stuck in this white room for much longer. Surely the Avengers were on their way. How long had she been sleeping? Four, five hours? Plus the initial kidnapping, which must have taken at least eight hours, and also the hour or so she spent awake. So . . . at least thirteen hours for them to figure out that she was missing, find out where she was, and come rescue her. Plenty of time. They would be here any minute.

Darcy was sure of it.

In the meantime, she needed to keep herself occupied. Sitting around, staring at the door and waiting for the Avengers was all well and good, but Darcy was aware of her short attention span. There was nothing else to do in the small white cell except sleep and eat food bars and use the toilet.

Well, she _could_ . . .

 

. . .

 

“I bless the rains down in Africaaaaaaaa,” Darcy sang at the top of her lungs sometime later. “Gonna something something something never haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaave bum BUM!”

She wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but it felt like days. Honestly, where the hell were they?

Whatever. It probably hadn’t actually been that long. Darcy just needed to be patient. Yeah, patient. She could do that. Probably.

“New song!” she announced, rubbing her hands together. “Hmm. How about . . .” She struck a dramatic pose against the wall, facing the door. “Just a small town girl!” she sang. “Living in a lonely world . . .”

 

. . . 

 

“. . . shoulda put a ring on it!” Darcy rasped. She coughed and rubbed her throat. _Well, my voice is starting to hurt, so it’s probably been a while. They’ll be here any minute,_ she thought.

She uncrossed her legs and pushed herself up, stretching. Then she walked over to the basin and turned the faucet, bending down to capture the water in her mouth. After eagerly gulping down enough so that her thirst was quenched, Darcy stood up and waved at the camera.

“You guys gonna give me something to do other than stare at the wall and sing?” she asked, her voice hoarse. God, how long had she been singing? She should probably do something else instead. Save her voice.

Exercise, maybe?

Ha. Like she had enough patience to do push-ups and lunges for more than five minutes. Besides, she didn’t want to be all sweaty and gross when Captain America came to rescue her. Darcy entertained herself for a few minutes with thinking up increasingly implausible rescue scenarios.

Then she shook herself. No point in thinking about something that was going to happen in a few minutes, anyway. Better use of her time to . . . hmm. What could she do?

Damn, she was bored.

_Who would’ve thought kidnapping would be so boring,_ Darcy thought.

 

. . .

 

“. . . four hundred ninety-eight, four hundred ninety-nine, five hundred! Another food bar thingy for me.” Darcy stopped pacing and went to retrieve one from the chest. Sticking the bar in her mouth, she crumpled up the white wrapper and tossed it in the corner with the eight others she had already eaten.

Although Darcy was still expecting the Avengers to come bursting through the door and dramatically sweep her off her feet, she had grown bored of sitting on the cot and waiting for them to come. Also, she had run out of songs to sing. So, the counting.

So far she had determined that the room was seven by ten paces long, the cot was six paces long, and the chest and toilet were both three. There were thirty food bars in the chest, and she had eaten eight, which meant that the one she was eating right now was her tenth. No, ninth. Thirty minus nine was . . . eighteen?

No. Not eighteen.

Darcy frowned. The numbers seemed to move sluggishly through her brain. Thirty minus nine. It was an easy problem, Darcy knew that. But it felt as if her brain couldn’t concentrate. The numbers were unraveling. Thirty minus nine. Wait. Was it nine? Maybe it was eight. Thirty minus eight . . . twelve? No, that was twenty minus eight. Wasn’t it? Nineteen seemed like a plausible answer. Or twenty-three.

Darcy felt a surge of irritation. It was a simple math problem! Why the hell couldn’t she take eight from twenty? No. Six from thirty. No, nineteen minus . . .

She slammed the chest lid shut and threw herself on the cot, burying her head in her arms. Stupid numbers. Stupid counting. Stupid room. Stupid Darcy . . .

“You’re not stupid, Darcy, you just don’t know any better,” said Jane, sitting at the foot of the cot.

Darcy blinked at her. “What?”

“Stupid is a harsh word, Darcy. You’re not stupid. You know how to make good coffee, even you don’t know your way around a calculator.” Jane smiled comfortingly at her.

Darcy scowled. “Is that all you think I’m good at?” she said bitterly. “Making coffee?”

“Of course not, you’re good at making breakfast too,” Jane said, waving her arm dismissively. “You’re just not very gifted in the brains department, that’s all. Not compared to everyone else, anyway.”

She felt like she’d been slapped. A pool of anger and shame bubbled up inside her belly. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she bit out.

Jane laughed as if it were the funniest joke she had ever heard. “Oh, Darcy, did you really think you were on the same level as we are? The Avengers? Did you think you were our equal?” She looked at Darcy pityingly.

Darcy recoiled. “Well, no, but—” she began, feeling suddenly shrunken next to Jane.

“Did you really think we wanted to keep you around? Your stupid pop culture references? Your ear-killing music? I mean, really Darcy, you’re a walking disaster.” Jane looked her up and down, nose wrinkling. “Not particularly attractive, either. Jiggly boobs, fat ass, frizzy hair. Honestly, Darcy, the only thing worth keeping you around for was your cooking. And even that’s sub-par compared to what we’ve had JARVIS order.”

Darcy was shaking. Each insult Jane casually tossed out hit her like a punch to the gut. The only thing she could think to say was, “Was?”

“Well, you’re certainly not doing much cooking in here, are you?” Jane looked around the room—cell—with an expression of distaste.

“But . . . back at the Tower . . .”

“You seriously think that you’ll be coming back to the Tower? You think the Avengers are going to come save you?” Jane laughed again, coldly. “You’re nothing more than a poorly-dressed set of boobs on legs, masquerading as a valuable scientific assistant. You’re only an errand girl, Darcy. Less than a maid. Even they get paid, but you’re not worth a salary.” She stood up and began walking towards the door. Darcy watched her, numb. “You’re not worth a rescue. You’re not worth anything, Darcy. You’re worthless.”

Jane opened the door. Darcy could see the Avengers waiting behind it. Their expressions ranged from mild disgust to outright scorn as they stared at her. Jane snuggled close to Thor, who put an arm around her. She faced Darcy. “I’m sorry we ever let you think otherwise.”

She turned to kiss Thor as Captain America gave a nod to Black Widow to close the door. The last thing Darcy saw before the door clanged shut was Tony Stark’s famous grin as he wiggled his fingers good-bye at her.

“No, wait—!” Darcy leaped forward, but tripped over her own legs and fell flat on the carpet. She let out a startled woof as the air left her lungs—

—and woke up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Darcy wakes up in a plain white cell, containing a cot, toilet, basin, and chest full of food bars. There's a camera in the corner watching her, and the door is locked, with no handle. Seeing that she's been kidnapped, Darcy understandably freaks out and has a severe panic attack. She doesn't have her glasses, but she's afraid of shapeshifting where the camera might see her. However, because she hasn't shifted for a long time, the pressure is starting to build up and she worries that she might "explode" if she doesn't shift in time. This causes another panic attack.  
> Eventually, Darcy calms down and explores her cell. She mouths off to the camera and cheers herself up by reassuring herself that the Avengers will come rescue her soon. Over the next several hours, she takes a nap, sings and paces to keep herself occupied, and has a nasty nightmare. In the nightmare, she dreams that Jane and the Avengers have come to her cell, but have decided that they don't need her and that she's not worthy to be rescued. She wakes herself up by falling off the cot.
> 
> Thank you for your support! The next chapter's already written, so it'll be up soon. Please comment if you have any feedback! :D


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: some language, discussion of psychological torture
> 
> Enjoy!

“At least she’s not singing anymore.”

“Agreed. Damn, that voice is awful.”

“Sounded like a dying whale.”

“Like you and Carmen when I caught you in the janitor’s closet doing—”

 _“Ahem._ Simon. Anderson.”

“C-Commander! Sir, we were just—”

“We weren’t—”

“Enough. Save your pitiful excuses, gentlemen. How is our prisoner doing?”

“Pretty normal so far, sir, according to your predictions. Bored, doesn’t seem to like the quiet, so she’s talking to herself. Well, she was. Looks like she had a nightmare or something, so now she’s just staring at the wall.”

“That’s to be expected. No hallucinations yet? She's only talked to herself?”

“Well, to the camera mostly, sir. She’s figured out that we can hear her.”

“Some of those curses I’ve never even heard of.”

“She’s creative, then.”

“I would say so, sir.”

“As far as coming up with curses goes.”

“Interesting. How long has she slept?”

“From about 0300 hours to 0800 hours, then two more at about 1600 hours. Seven hours in total, but she seems to think it was closer to ten or twelve. Just as you predicted, sir.”

“Excellent. Her internal clock is already off. Anything else, Anderson? Simon?”

“Her voice is awful, sir.”

“Simon. Anything else that’s important?”

“Something she said earlier was a bit odd, Commander.”

“In what way, Anderson?”

“Oh, are you talking about the . . . right, yeah, that _was_ weird.”

“Simon. Be professional, will you? Sir, when she woke up the second time, she had a panic attack. She had one when she first woke up, too, but it was the second one that was odd.”

“We knew that would happen. Get to the point.”

“Yes, sir. The second panic attack didn’t have an obvious trigger.”

“Is waking up in a cell not enough of a trigger?”

“Well, that’s what triggered the first one, sir. But this one . . . she just kept muttering something under her breath.”

“Oh, yeah! I think it was ‘can’t shit, can’t shit, can’t shit.’”

“You think she had a panic attack over defecating in front of a camera, Simon.”

“Obviously not, sir. Simon just thinks he’s funny. Voice analysis from the microphone in her collar shows . . . here, let me pull it up for you . . . there. ‘Can’t _shift_ ,’ not shit.”

“Any idea what she means by that?”

“Well, aside from the obvious euphemisms . . .”

“Shut up, Simon. Be a professional. No, sir, we don’t.”

“Interesting. Anything else?”

“No, I don’t think so, sir.”

“Simon?”

“Nope.”

“Sir.”

“Sorry. Nope,  _sir_.”

“One of these days I’ll have you whipped for insubordination, Simon.”

“Yes, _sir_. Sorry, _sir_.”

“In fact, I’m transferring you to Prisoner 9-A. I’m sure he’ll be much more appreciative of your humor than I am. Effective immediately.”

“But sir—!”

“No arguments. Maybe the mercenary’s smart tongue will knock yours out of your mouth. I’m leaving. Keep an eye on her, Anderson. I’ll send Jensen down to relieve you in a couple hours. It won’t be too long before she breaks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick update? Me?! Shocking! The next chapter will probably take longer though, so . . . sorry in advance if it takes a month to upload. I'm doing my best, but I am NOT a quick writer. It's gonna be pretty intense though, like the last one, so there's that to look forward to. 
> 
> Thank you so much for your continued support! Also, thank you for the comments! They are, as always, very appreciated. :D
> 
> So I also forgot to thank my beta last chapter, Shadowed_Ceraunophile. Whoops. You the best! Thank you for listening to me ramble about Darcy and writing and all the other things I ramble about! xoxo :)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Panic attacks, self-hatred, hallucinations, violence, psychological torture, mentions of torture, strong language, verbal abuse
> 
> Keep yourself safe! This is a pretty heavy chapter. If you're easily triggered, you might want to read the summary at the bottom instead. However, my friend with anxiety proofread this for me and she was okay. Use your best judgement.
> 
> Enjoy!

“Gah!”

Darcy jumped up, turning her back on the door. _Gotta get that stupid dream out of my head,_ she thought, stomping over to the chest and banging the lid open. She glared at the food bars without really seeing them.

_You really thought we wanted to keep you around?_

Her hands tightened into fists.

_Really, Darcy, you’re a walking disaster._

She blinked furiously.

_Fat ass._

_Sub-par._

_Worthless._

“Damn it.” Her traitorous voice quivered. She squeezed her eyes shut and just breathed for a moment, fighting to keep her emotions under control. _Calm down, Darcy!_ she told herself fiercely. _It was just a dream. Stop freaking out so much over a damn dream!_

She rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands and dragged them down her face. Deep breaths. Don’t think about it.

_You seriously think the Avengers will come to save you?_

Darcy let out a wordless shriek of frustration, slammed the chest lid down, stomped over to the wall opposite the door, and leaned heavily against it. She quietly groaned and slid down, curling her knees up against her chest and facing the door.

The Avengers were out there, on the other side, somewhere. Being heroes. Were they looking for her? Had they found out where she was? Were they on their way? How much longer did she have to freaking wait? Did they even care?

Darcy didn't know. Hell, she didn't know anything. Where she was, what was going to happen to her, why the hell she was even here. If she would ever get out. She didn't know, and she was . . . she was terrified.

_Pull yourself together,_ she thought, hugging her knees. _You're tough. You tased the freaking god of thunder. You're not a coward, so stop acting like one!_

Darcy’s head fell back against the wall. She stared up at the rectangular fluorescent light. How long had she been here? Judging by how much pressure had built up within her from her lack of shifting, it had been at least two or three days, if not more. It was difficult to judge.

And that was another thing she was worried about. Her veins kept feeling tighter and tighter from the mounting need to shift, and it was getting harder and harder to ignore. At most, Darcy guessed she had about a week, maybe two, before it would burst out of her, leaving her transformed into—well, it was difficult to tell what shape she would be forced into. The other time it had built up and exploded out of her when she was thirteen, it had been a big horse.

(But, like, a really, _really_ big horse. Like, size-of-two-trucks big. The more pressure was released, the more drastic the change. Up to that point, the biggest animal Darcy had changed into was a tiger.

Good thing her grandma lived on a ranch out in the middle of nowhere.)

Darcy opened her hand, feeling the pressure change slightly as she flexed her fingers. It wasn't evenly distributed throughout her body; it concentrated near the parts that were easiest to shift. Her hands, feet, and spine all throbbed in time with her heartbeat, and there was a pulsing behind her eyes. Nothing more than annoying for now, like a nagging headache, but how long would it be before she was totally incapacitated? Paralyzed from holding back the pressure?

Too soon. If the Avengers didn't show up . . .

Their sneering faces floated into her mind. Darcy bit her lip.

_I'm sorry we ever let you think otherwise._

Ha. Like Jane would actually say that. They would come. They had to. Jane needed her. Who else would bring Jane her daily dose of caffeine? Translate her Science! scribblings for the R&D flunkies? Listen to her gush about Thor? Um . . . ask Tony for stuff for her?

Well, actually, there were probably hundreds of people who would die for the chance to work in Avengers Tower with one of the world's most respected astrophysicists (after the battle of New York, Jane quickly went from crazy outcast in the scientific world to groundbreaking genius). People who had an actual science degree. Hell, Darcy could name at least ten people from R&D off the top of her head who were better qualified than her to assist Jane.

But she had a _connection_ to Jane that nobody else had: New Mexico. Late nights on the roof, drinking tequila and watching the stars, talking about everything and nothing. Bonding, like only those who had inflicted bodily harm on a god of thunder within the span of 24 hours could bond.

Darcy was special to Jane. She _was_.

She had to be. Or else . . . or else they wouldn’t come. And then she would be stuck in this white hellhole and—

Darcy shook her head. No. _No_. They would come. They would. They had to. They _had_ to. If they didn’t, she’d be experimented on, tortured, killed —or worse.

No no no no no no! She had to get out! She couldn’t stay here! She had to get out—had to get back to Jane!

_If Jane even cares._

Jane did care! She did! She was on her way with Thor and—

_Why would she come when she has Thor? And all the actual scientific assistants she could ask for? You’re not really an assistant, you're a burden. Useless. Sure, you’re her “assistant”? What do you even do? Make coffee? Give advice? She doesn’t need advice from someone who doesn’t know anything about physics besides velocity equals time minus acceleration over something or another, especially when she has a freaking god who can explain quantum physics on a detailed level! There’s no way in hell she’d come back for someone like you!_

But . . . but Jane, she cared about Darcy anyway, right? She had to, because if she didn’t . . . If she didn’t, then—then Darcy was doomed. Jane was the only one who really cared for her, and if she didn't, then the Avengers wouldn't have any reason to save Darcy. It’s not like she could escape herself or anything.

Wait. She _could_ escape herself. Darcy was not a damsel in distress. If they didn’t come, then--then she would just have to escape. By herself. Like an actual badass.

Oh boy.

She uncurled her legs from her chest and crossed them in front of her. Tapping her knuckles on the carpet (if only it was tile; the sound would be much more satisfying--then again, the tile wouldn't be nearly as comfy to sit on) she frowned at the door.

The problem was, she didn't know what was on the other side of the door. She could be literally anywhere. Without any interaction with the outside world, Darcy had no idea what to expect. Obviously, _someone_ had dumped her in this room, not to mention the change of clothes.

_Ew_. Darcy resolutely did not think about unknown, slimy hands groping her. _Nope, not thinking about it,_ she told herself.

And obviously, someone was watching her through the camera. Which. Also. Gross. And the fact that they had drugged her quickly enough that she didn't have time to shift and fight them off told her that they probably had some pretty good resources up their sleeves. She did not succumb to drugs easily, a side effect of her, ahem, _unusual_ biology. Which was great for avoiding hangovers after tequila nights with Jane, but if they had been able to knock her out so easily, it must have been a pretty strong dose.

So either they knew about her biological discrepancies (word of the day: check!) and took them into account when they kidnapped her, or they overdosed her, not caring whether she lived or died. Neither option sounded good.

Darcy tasted blood. She stopped chewing on her lip.

If they knew about her shifting—no. No way. There was no way they knew about her shifting. She had been so careful. There was absolutely no way in hell that anyone had figured it out. Thor didn't count; he was an alien and had alien powers.

And she honestly couldn't think of any way they would be able to tell if there was something different with her biology. They would need her DNA, wouldn't they? Which, again, she had been extremely careful not to spread around. No sexual relationships (sigh), no doctors, no blood donations, ever. Up until her internship with Jane she had lived on her grandma's ranch her whole life. She was homeschooled, took college online, and interacted with people other than her grandma exclusively over the internet.

Still, isolated as Darcy was, this was the first time she had truly been alone. She looked around the small white room, the camera and door her only contact with the outside world, and felt suddenly an engulfing pit of loneliness sinking in her gut.

She was alone. Completely alone.

Just a camera and a door to remind her that people existed outside of this room. Somewhere, someone was being born. Someone just had their first kiss. Someone just lost their virginity. Someone just won the lottery, someone just bought a car, someone just took their last breath.

And Darcy was cut off from all of it.

The emptiness of the room, the silence, was deafening. It crushed her, down, down, down, until she could barely breathe under the weight of it. Her skin felt hot and tight like she was burning up from the inside.

Darcy shook herself. _Wow, way to be dramatic,_ she thought. Sure it was lonely. Yeah, the silence made her kind of uncomfortable (understatement) but hell, nothing was stopping her from breaking that silence!

Was it yesterday that she had sung until her voice gave out? Two days ago? Three? It felt like a long time. The silence hadn't seemed nearly as oppressive then.

She opened her mouth to sing, but stopped and closed her mouth again. She wasn't sure why her vocal chords refused to sing. Just . . . the silence. It was so palpable, so heavy, that she couldn't bring herself to break it.

Once, Darcy had gone to a funeral in a big Catholic church. She had only been about six, but she could clearly remember the way the heavy, mournful silence had pressed down upon her, like if she broke it the dam would break and she would be crushed. Even when the choir had started to sing, the threat of the oppressive silence had loomed in the background. The normally talkative Darcy had clung to her grandma's hand without saying a word for the entire funeral ceremony.

She felt the same way now. The silence within the small white room, broken only by her breathing and the rustle of her clothes, was an entity ready to pounce as soon as she dared to break it.

Darcy found herself slowing her breathing and stilling her tapping fingers, doing her best not to move a muscle. Not to break the silence. Her pulse thrummed loudly in her ears, and she wished she could tell her heart to stop banging so loudly against her ribcage.

She watched the door and was silent.

 

. . .

 

Sometime later (minutes? hours? days?), Darcy was fighting valiantly to keep her eyes open. She couldn't fall asleep, she couldn't. If she did, she wouldn't be able to stay silent. She'd snore, or move around, or—or do _something_.

_You've never been a noisy sleeper before,_ a small voice said reasonably in the back of her head.

_Yeah_ , Darcy argued back. _But I've also never slept in a tiny white room after being kidnapped!_

Except when she had that dream.

. . . And when she was drugged.

But she hadn't noticed the silence then. It hadn't dragged on her as it did now. Pinning her in place. Paralyzing. All Darcy could do without breaking it was watch the door, and blink (but only occasionally, because she could swear she could hear the scrape of her eyelashes on her cheek in the deathly silence), and breathe, also as quietly as she could.

But not moving . . . was somehow fatiguing. With every passing moment, she could feel herself growing sleepier and sleepier. Edging closer and closer to unconsciousness, where she would lose all control.

Control, control, control. Darcy didn't have any, except over herself. And now her body was betraying her by demanding sleep.

Well, it wouldn't get it. She was in charge. She _would_ remain silent, and she _would_ stay awake. So there.

The silence seemed to laugh at her.

 

. . .

 

She poured the coffee into the mug but her fingers must have slipped because it all spilled onto the papers. Ruining the equations, the numbers. Jane would _kill_ her if she didn't fix them.

She snatched at them, trying in vain to gather them up, but no matter how many she grabbed, there were still more, more, more under her fingertips.

The papers spilled out of her hand and were swept up in a sudden wind, right into Darcy’s face, blinding her. In front of her face, everywhere, there were papers. She couldn’t see, she couldn’t see, she couldn’t see, and she was trapped in this chaos, stumbling through the paper, arms outstretched, never finding a way out, reaching for someone, _anyone_ , to save her, but there was no one there. No one. She was alone in the paper. Alone in the white, white paper.

A hand grabbed her and pulled her out.

Spitting papers out of her mouth, shaking them from her clothes, she looked up to thank her savior, but her tongue was swollen. She couldn't speak.

Thor looked at her and shook his head. “You're not Jane,” he said to Darcy, and let go.

“No, wait, please, I'm your lightning sister, please—!” she pleaded, but he turned away from her, and the papers swallowed her up again, and she fell—down and down and down until paper filled her mouth and plugged her nose and she was drowning in black ink and white space and numbers danced around her head, singing, and she couldn't make a sound and she couldn't breathe and she was _trapped in the white —_

Darcy jerked awake with a gasp, then slapped a hand over her face to quiet herself.

Heaving, she looked up and thought for a second that she was back in the papers, floundering, but then her eyes focused and the blurry white papers turned into a less-blurry white room. (Still a little blurry, though, since she didn't have her glasses.)

Darcy kept a hand over her mouth as her breathing slowly calmed. The silence was still growling at her to keep quiet, but it wasn't unnerving her nearly as much as the white now was.

It was so _white_. How had she not noticed how white it was?

Even her skin seemed paler under the harsh light, never mind that she already had a tendency towards a paler skin tone to begin with. Nevertheless, it wasn't nearly as white as the rest of the room.

Her stomach rumbled, and Darcy winced. The silence was looming disapprovingly, but she needed to eat.

She stood up and almost passed out from the blood rush. If the wall hadn't been right behind her to lean on, Darcy was sure she would have fallen over. As it was, it must have been at least ten minutes before she was ready to walk over to the food chest. Or maybe it was five minutes. Or twenty. She didn't know.

A blink and she was kneeling in front of the open chest, staring at the bars inside. Even they were wrapped in white plastic. She took one out and opened it, cringing as the crinkle of the plastic disturbed the silence. The bar was an unidentifiable beige color and tasted just as bland. Darcy bit into it. At least it wasn't white.

She chewed and chewed and swallowed until she wasn't hungry anymore. After tossing the empty wrappers in the corner with the others, she went back to her spot against the wall and sat down.

No matter where she looked, all Darcy could see was white. Her hair was brown, and her skin was, um, skin-colored, and the unwrapped food bars were beige. Everything else was white.

_Racist_ , Darcy thought in an attempt at humor, but even in her head, the joke fell flat. She sighed internally.

She couldn't do anything except sit and stare. If she made noise, the silence would devour her, but she couldn't be perfectly silent, because breathing was important, and breathing made noise, small as it was. So the silence remained, glaring at her, but held at bay for the moment.

But the white was more disturbing than the silence. White, white, white. It was everywhere. She couldn't escape it.

No. Darcy refused to stare at white any longer. She closed her eyes and buried her face in her arms. Blocking it out.

In the cradle of her arms, her breathing seemed much louder, but she could bear it as long as she didn't have to look at the damn _white_ anymore.

The white hovered at the edge of her vision, threatening her eyes, to keep them closed. So she did.

 

. . .

 

At some point, Darcy found herself lying on her cot, staring at the ceiling. If she stared directly at the light long enough, greenish spots would appear in her vision and blot out some of the white when she looked away. She'd been doing this for a while now, despite the aching in her eyes. Pain was better than staring at white.

It felt like she'd been here forever. Maybe her whole life had been spent here, and everything else had been a dream. There was no way to know if there was anyone else outside of this small white room. For all Darcy knew, she was the sole surviving member of the human race. Did people exist anymore? Were Jane, Thor, her grandma, nothing more than a product of her imagination? Was there even—

_Thump_.

Darcy shot up. _What the hell was that?_ she thought. She strained her ears, staring at the door. She had heard something, she knew it. A sound. From outside her cell. A creak, like someone stepping on a loose floorboard. No, it had been a tap —fingernails on a wall. Or was it a click? Snap of the fingers?

She couldn’t remember what the sound had been. But she knew there had been something. Some noise to prove that there was a world beyond this blank, white room. An actual world. With people. People that had probably made whatever noise she had just heard. She wasn’t alone. She wasn’t!

Darcy swung her legs off the bed and went over to the door, pressing her ear against the cool metal surface.

She didn't hear anything else, but she knew, Darcy _knew_ she had heard something. With the pressure inside her veins thrumming with her pulse, she was tempted to shift her ears into ones that would be able to better pick up sound from beyond the thick metal door. But she couldn't, for fear the camera would pick up on it.

Oh, duh, the camera. That proved that there were people out there, too. She felt silly for forgetting about it.

It was weird. Normally Darcy wouldn't forget something like that. And she wouldn't usually be freaking out over a random little sound, either. In New Mexico, she had kept her cool even when a giant robot was destroying the town. Yes, she was a little trigger-happy (sorry, Thor) but damn it, Darcy was _good_ in a crisis!

She sighed and moved away from the door. Her limbs were heavy and lethargic, even though all she'd been doing over the past however-many-days-she’d-been-here was sleep, and sit, and occasionally get up to grab a food bar or use the toilet. But she just seemed to be getting sleepier and sleepier. She yawned.

_Th-thump._

Darcy froze.

Nothing, just the sound of her breathing. She sat quietly on the cot and kept her ears cocked for any sound.

Then, another. _Thump_.

Like footsteps.

Footsteps.

They were here! The Avengers! They had come to save her!

Darcy suppressed a shriek of joy. The silence was still watching her, after all. She had to stay quiet, at least until the Avengers came. Then the silence would be banished, and she'd be free to make as much noise as she wanted.

She sped over to the door and accidentally banged her temple in her haste to listen for the Avengers. Rubbing it and repressing the urge to hiss in pain, Darcy struggled to catch more sounds through the thick metal door, but all she could hear was the pounding of her heart and the whoosh of the air vent.

The air vent.

Darcy wanted to slap herself. Why hadn't she thought of the air vent?

_You're such an idiot,_ she told herself as she surveyed the room for where the air vent might be. She could hear it, but it was nowhere to be seen. Not on the ceiling, not on the walls, not on the door (well, she guessed the door wouldn't really make sense).

Where was it? She could see every inch of the room from where she was standing, except behind the toilet and under the cot.

Darcy was torn for a second. On the one hand, she didn't want to leave her listening spot by the door, in case she missed hearing the Avengers, but she also wanted to find out where the vent was. Maybe she could use it to escape if it turned out that the noises she heard weren't from the Avengers. If she moved quickly enough, turned into a snake or a rat perhaps, she might be able to escape before her kidnappers figured out what was going on and closed off the vents or something.

If necessary, Darcy could shift into something that would be extremely difficult to catch. She had zero experience with combat, except for Puente Antiguo (which didn't really count as “combat,” per se) but she could figure something out. Probably. Hypothetically.

Hopefully.

As she was thinking this, Darcy had checked behind the toilet but hadn't found anything besides an expanse of white wall. She moved over to kneel beside the cot and crouched down, peering underneath the mattress.

Yep. There they were: four small vents, about the size of a golf ball in diameter, and equally round. This close to them, Darcy could feel the rush of air on her cheeks, and the whoosh of the escaping air was a dull roar in her ears. It was an unexpected relief from the silence.

The pressure to shift still thrummed in her veins, and seeing an opportunity for escape only made it pulse harder.

Ha, that's what he said— _Focus, Darcy!_

A small garden snake, or a mouse, would easily be able to slip through one of the vents. She could be out of here just like that!

But, what if it was boobytrapped? Lasers, or motion sensors, or something else along those lines?

Darcy thought for a moment, then reached up and plucked a hair from her scalp, wincing a little at the slight sting. She twirled the chocolate-colored strand between her fingers and held it about an inch above one of the vents. The escaping air almost blew it away, but she tightened her grip and carefully slipped it into the vent.

There was a sizzle. A wisp of smoke curled up from the vent. The scent of burned hair floated into Darcy’s nostrils, and she stuffed a fist in her mouth to stop herself from sneezing.

Okay, then. No escaping through the vents. Maybe if Darcy had noticed them earlier, before they were turned on, she could've—wait. Wait.

Why _hadn't_ she noticed it earlier? She had been sitting in total silence for days and days, she was sure of it. At no point had she heard a whoosh of air interrupt. Why had they turned it on now?

She furrowed her brow and sat back on her heels. Her skull seemed abruptly too tight, pressure throbbing along her temples, down to the nape of her neck. But she couldn’t shift, not until she was away from the camera.

It was just so hard to _think_ around the headache. It pounded, pounded, pounded. So it took Darcy much longer than normal to realize the reason for the vents turning on.

Gas.

A sedative, maybe, or perhaps it was simply poison. Odorless, colorless—they must have thought she would dismiss it as nothing more than air. But oh, no. Oh, no-no-no-no-no. Darcy was too smart for them. ( _Take that, Jane._ ) She knew their secrets. She knew they were planning something for her! Some torture, or experimentation . . .

. . . oh, God. _She was being gassed._

Her lungs felt abruptly tight. Restricted. Like she couldn’t breathe. Like something was in her throat, or lungs, or mouth, gagging her. Choking her. There was a strange taste in her mouth, suddenly, that she only now noticed. It was sour, bitter. Poison.

Oh, hell. They were poisoning her. The vents. The vents were pumping in poisonous gas and she was _right next to them!_

Darcy shoved herself backward, awkwardly, away from the cot. Away from the vents, away from the gas. She clamped her hands over her mouth and nose, bumping into the food chest. Shallow breaths. Maybe her hands were enough of a filter. Maybe she could keep out the gas.

But, deep down, Darcy knew she couldn’t. It was futile. The poison lingered on her tongue. Her throat was tightening. She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t get enough air. The gas was already eating away at her lungs. She could feel it.

Darcy had to get it out.

Leaving a hand over her nose— _shallow breaths —_she reached inside her mouth. She scraped at her tongue. The roof of her mouth. Her teeth. Her gums. She scraped, she scratched, she clawed at the inside of her mouth, at the taste of poison. _Get it out, get it out, get it out_ was a screeching siren in her brain and the taste was still there, the gas was still there, _get it out —! _

She reached too far in and triggered her gag reflex. Coughing and sputtering, she reflexively yanked out her hand, but as she did so, her nails—ragged after so long in captivity—caught on the inside of her lip, and the poison was replaced by the coppery taste of blood and a jolt of pain.

Still, although she no longer could taste the gas, Darcy still felt it seeping into her body. Entering her bloodstream, making her pulse race and her breath catch. Taking over, poisoning her.

Bile rose in the back of her throat. Her stomach heaved with nausea, but Darcy couldn’t move.

_I’m gonna die, aren’t I,_ she realized in a brief moment of clarity.

Then she convulsed and vomited. Chunky and yellowish, it spattered down her chest and onto her lap, dripping and staining the white carpet into light brown. Her hands, which had automatically gone to cover her mouth, were covered in the stuff. It dribbled down her chin.

Darcy looked down and saw, among the vomit, small droplets of blood from her scratched lip.

She had never felt filthier.

_Oh, hell,_ she thought distantly. _Now you’ve done it._ She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the mess. There was so _much_. It filled her vision, her thoughts, her nostrils, with its stench.

Her stomach roiled again. Shakily, arms trembling, Darcy scooted away from the mess. But there was no escaping the vomit that clung to her jumpsuit. The moist cloth stuck to her skin. She had to get it off.

Her shaking hands fumbled with the zipper. It caught on a strand of hair, yanking at the roots. She hissed at the sharp pain in her scalp but managed to disentangle her hair and tug the zipper down. There was an unpleasant squelching sound as she peeled off her jumpsuit. _Ugh_.

Leaving the once-white fabric puddled on the floor, Darcy stood up and backed as far away from the vomit and the vents as she possibly could, which ended up with her backed into a corner of the wall, near the door and under the camera. She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself.

Goosebumps prickled on her skin. Without her jumpsuit, she was clad only in a white sports bra and a pair of equally white shorts.

Damn, her head _hurt_. She wished she could shift. Wished that the Avengers would —

Someone touched her shoulder. Darcy nearly jumped out of her skin. Heart pounding, she whirled around and saw . . . nothing.

“Who’s—who’s there?” Her voice was little more than a croak, but it still made the silence shiver and snap, sparking along her skin. She wished she hadn’t spoken.

Then, something flickered in the corner of her eye. Darcy whipped around, but the thing had vanished. Her eyes darted around, catching flashes of shadow, always just out of sight. She wasn’t alone. Something was in here. What—no, _where_ was it? She couldn’t see it anywhere. Was it hidden in the food chest? Under her bed? In her bed? Was that it, wriggling under the sheets?

Darcy shuddered. What was it doing? Sticking some kind of drone nanobot thing in her bed that would poison her when she went to sleep? Yes, yes, that was it, that’s what it was doing. Would the poison kill her? Or merely paralyze her when she laid down to sleep so that one of those sick perverts could come in and—

And then she heard it. Skittering. Behind her ear. Darcy shrieked and threw herself away from the wall, landing on her elbows.

Before her eyes, a fissure appeared in the wall, cracks spiderwebbing across the white surface. Beady eyes glinted in the darkness, watching her.

Everything was still for a moment.

The eyes blinked, and then a beetle crawled out of the hole. Darcy relaxed, shoulders slumping. _Oh. It’s just a bug,_ she thought.

Then, another beetle crawled out.

And another.

And another.

And three more emerged. And then there were dozens of beetles swarming onto the wall, shells glinting, mandibles clicking in an eerie chorus. The wall quickly became covered in the things as beetles continued to materialize from the hole. Beetles at the edge began to drop onto the ground, crawling towards Darcy, who lay propped up by her elbows, staring at the horde. She couldn’t move. Fear froze her limbs in place.

The first beetle reached her and began to climb up her leg. She whimpered, but still couldn’t move, watching with a sort of horrified fascination as the beetle crested her knee. It paused, twitching its antennae. Then it turned and scurried back down her leg, towards the rest of the swarm.

Darcy found that her limbs could move again; an uncontrollable spasm wracked her leg as soon as the beetle was off of it. She shuddered, drawing her legs up against her chest. She was trapped between the puddle of vomit and the beetles, with the door on her right and the toilet, sink, and cot on her left. A high whine ached in her throat, but she couldn’t make herself stop. Her breathing was shallow. She felt light-headed.

Meanwhile, the beetle that had crawled off her leg was circling around to the others that had fallen onto the floor. One by one, they touched antennae, clicked their mandibles, and set off together, until the wall was bare, the beetles all on the floor, moving together, as one.

Moving towards her.

“No.” Darcy wondered at first who had spoken before the penny dropped. “No,” she said again, louder. She didn’t care anymore about breaking the silence. “No, no, no, no, _no —!” _

By the end, she was screaming, throat cracking, voice hoarse. But the beetles didn’t listen. They didn’t care. They swarmed in a mob, pulsing like a school of fish. Scuttling towards her, then suddenly retreating, over the floor, up the wall, around and around the hole, back down again, encircling her, closing in—

Darcy’s voice suddenly gave out and she hunched over in a fit of coughing. When she looked up, the beetles had disappeared.

She gaped for a moment, then whirled around.

They were behind her, and, somehow, they had arranged themselves into words:

_YOU ARE NOT ALONE_

She blinked at it, chest heaving. “Is—” she broke off, coughing. “—I-is that supposed to be—” _Cough_. “ —comforting?”

The beetles wriggled but didn’t answer. (She wasn’t expecting them to.)

“I don’t understand,” Darcy whispered. She stared at them, and a hot pit of anger suddenly welled in her stomach. Her teeth gritted. “I.” She balled her hands into fists. “Don’t.” She stood up. _“Understand!!”_

Her throat burned, her eyes stung, her veins were like a throbbing fire. There was a sharp pricking in her palms. Below her, the beetles, still spelling out those awful words, coalesced and melted together, jagged and shiny. And then they weren’t words anymore, they were claws, reaching up from the ground, grasping at her ankles.

Darcy stumbled away, but the claws stretched and twisted, reaching for her. “No, no, no, no, no,” she found herself babbling, unable to stop herself. She hit the door, head banging painfully against the metal. Something dark was rising out of the ground. Coming for her. She scrambled to get away, but she was backed into a corner. Trapped.

There was no escape. The shadowy figure grew until it blocked her whole vision, gurgles and hisses muffled through the pounding in her ears. Darcy squeezed her eyes shut and sank to the floor. “Please, please, please,” she heard herself beg, voice cracking. “Please, please, no, no, no—!”

It brushed her cheek, a cruel imitation of a lover’s gesture. She couldn’t see it, but she could feel its presence, like shards of burning ice stabbing her from the inside out. Her heart was pounding, pounding, pounding, a palpable weight in her breast, every pound stabbing the fire and ice further into her veins. She couldn’t get away.

She dared to open her eyes and saw nothing but darkness. She was surrounded. It was everywhere, enveloping her in its clutches. Her ragged breathing echoed strangely in her ears. The shadows closed in on her. One of its claws found her throat and squeezed.

And the pressure burst.

Darcy screamed as the shards of flame tore through her skin, shredding through bone and muscle, contorting her limbs. She fell to her knees, shuddering as the spikes grew into claws, stabbed through her spine, twisted her jaw. The pressure expanded within her skin; like a balloon, she stretched with it. Molten lava bubbled violently in her veins, searching for an outlet, finding it in her eyes, her mouth, her ears. Dimly, she was aware of her scream fracturing, deepening into an unearthly roar. The pain blurred her vision until she could no longer see. Darcy burned. She stung. She froze, she cracked, she warped.

She broke.

When her vision cleared, she was staring at the remains of her bra and shorts, caught under her talons. Her wings brushed against the ceiling, and her tail was trapped between the cot and the sink. Darcy felt cramped and uncomfortable, her bulk restricted by the walls.

But the shadows were gone. The only sound was her huffs of breath. She was alone.

Just to be sure, she turned around in a circle as best she could, accidentally trampling the thin mattress of the cot and overturning the food chest. Her tail dislodged the sink, causing scalding water to burst across her fur and her spines to bristle in surprise. But she managed to make a complete circle without finding any trace of the darkness.

She had won.

In triumph, she threw her neck back and roared. Her celebration bounced off the walls, filling her ears with her victory.

Which was why she didn’t hear the door opening.

At least, not until the gun fired.

A sharp heat tore through her foreleg as her roar of triumph turned into a screech of agony. Furious, she swiped at the man with her claws, but there wasn’t enough room for her to maneuver. The man wasn’t alone, either. At least a dozen more crowded into the doorway, all of them equipped with wicked-looking guns. She was trapped, again, but this time it was far more real. Frantically, Darcy tried to shift into something smaller, but she was stuck. She had gone without shifting for too long, and now that the pressure had been released, it would not be reined in. Possibly only the size of the room had prevented her from getting any bigger.

The men lifted their guns and fired. She howled and tried to shield herself with a wing, but there simply wasn’t enough room. Bullets tore into her hide, each one bringing a fresh punch of pain. They shot and shot and shot, until her legs shuddered and collapsed beneath her, and finally, the waves of bullets stopped.

Wounded and weak, Darcy glared at the men from one slitted eye. They impassively stared back, then, as if in response to some hidden signal, they cleared a path for a man at the back to walk forward.

He stopped in front of her, gazing at her from behind dark sunglasses. Breath heaving, Darcy glowered at him, wishing she had the strength to tear him apart.

They stared at each other for a moment, then the man stepped forward and placed a small disc on top of her muzzle, which immediately latched into her skin, causing a whimper to escape from her throat. He stepped back and tapped something onto his watch.

_What’s he —_

There was a jolt, and everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary: Darcy freaks out about the dream she had, but manages to reassure herself that the Avengers will come and rescue her. She wonders how she was even captured in the first place; after all, she'd been extremely careful her entire life not to let anyone know about her shapeshifting. The silence is oppressive and soon Darcy imagines it as a looming entity. She sits on the cot and waits for the Avengers, afraid of breaking the silence. Eventually, she falls asleep and has a nightmare of drowning in a tsunami of paper, Thor refusing to rescue her. She wakes up and is terrified that she's still in the paper. Realizing the white she sees is just the white of the room, Darcy calms down, but now hates staring at the white. She buries her head in her arms in order to escape it. Some time passes (Darcy isn't sure how long it's been, but she thinks at least a week, if not more) and Darcy's done her best to stay silent and wait patiently for the Avengers. Then, she hears a noise. She's not sure what the noise is, but she knows she heard it. Maybe it's footsteps. It must be! she thinks. The Avengers are here! But she doesn't hear anything else, except the whoosh of the air vent. The air vent! Maybe she can escape through the air vent! Upon investigation, however, Darcy finds that the vents are electrified. But why are the vents suddenly going? Darcy realizes the answer: they're gassing her. She freaks out and panics, vomiting over herself. Shakily, she strips out of the jumpsuit and stands in the corner, under the camera. Then, she notices a fracture in the wall. She backs away from it as beetles begin to pour out of it and surround her. They form the words, YOU ARE NOT ALONE, then while she's freaking out, melt together into claws, which grab at her. During all this, the pressure in her veins continues to build. The claws belong to a shadowy darkness, which tears its way out of the ground and surrounds her. It squeezes her neck, and Darcy finally succumbs to the pressure. She falls on the ground and writhes as the pressure forces her to shapeshift until she fills the entire room. The darkness is gone. But then, the door opens, and guns start shooting at Darcy, deeply injuring her until she collapses. The men in the doorway part for their leader, who places a device on her muzzle and taps something on his watch. Darcy wonders what he's doing, then suddenly blacks out.
> 
>  
> 
> Soooo . . . this took me a while. Sorry.
> 
> Guys, thank you so much for your patience. I really appreciate it. I was fully intending on finishing this chapter and posting by the end of May, but Life decided to punch me in the face. And then kick me. Which is why it took me so long to finish, and why I haven't responded to any of your comments. I did read them, and I appreciate every single one. 
> 
> I can't promise that I'll be able to finish the next chapter soon, but I'll do my best. Trust me, I have big plans for this story. Thank you so much for your continued support! :)
> 
> xoxo


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Strong language, mentions of torture, fourth-wall breaking (guess who it is?)
> 
> I'm soooooo excited for you guys to read this. I hope you like it! Please enjoy!

_How did you get yourself into this mess?_

“Oh, nice, providing an opportunity to give information to the readers, since they have to infer everything from dialogue in this chapter. Just what we need right now.”

_Well, you don’t have to be a sourpuss about it._

_yeah, chill_

“Well, I’m sorry that I’m grumpy after having been torn apart violently and kidnapped so that I healed inside a stupid fucking cage!”

_Language!_

_you sound like captain america_

_You can’t reference something that hasn’t happened in this universe!_

_i just did, dickwad_

“Could you guys stop breaking the fourth wall long enough for me to figure out how to get outta here?”

_you started it_

“Yeah, well, now I’m ending it. Yeesh, I sound like one of those suburban white moms. Or would that be a suburban white dad?”

_Dad, I think, since you’re a male._

_since when does that have anything to do with it?_

_Good point._

“Okay, okay, whatever, would you guys be quiet for a damn second and help me look for a way out? I’m craving chimichangas so bad right now.”

_that was a pathetic identity giveaway_

_I think they've figured it out already, idiot._

_you're seriously calling me an idiot? at least i don't—_

“Would you shut up and help me find a way out already?”

_You mean you haven’t already found it?_

_loser_

“What do you mean, haven’t already found it? Have you found it?”

_hey, yeah, what did you notice that i didn’t?_

_“We_ didn’t!”

_whatever_

_Well, I . . . haven’t necessarily noticed a way out, per se, but I’m surprised that you haven’t._

“You can’t get on my case when you’re doing just as bad as I am!”

_shut up both of you_

“What? Why?”

_someone’s coming in_

_Ooooo, a potential weakness!_

“Does anybody actually say ‘a potential weakness’ in real life?”

_This isn’t real life._

_shut up they’re almost here_

_. . . Wow, that guy’s face looks like a dog’s turd._

“I was just about to say that!”

_wish i never saw that face_

_He’s almost as ugly as we are._

“Is it a he? Maybe it’s just an extremely ugly woman.”

_don’t assume genders_

_Fine, then, let’s just ask it._

“Good idea! Hey! Hey! You there, turd-face! Look over here! Hey!”

_It’s not paying attention._

_rude_

_We should kill it when we get out._

_yeah! rip its ugly face off and stuff it up its—_

“It’s coming over! Yay! Hey person! Probably person! Can you hear me?”

_Of course it can hear you, you’re shouting._

“You can hear me? Great! Hey, I have a question for you. What are you?”

_oh it doesn’t like that._

“No, that’s not what I meant! I just wanted to know if you’re a boy or a girl. Or something else! I won’t judge!”

_i will_

_Same._

“No, no, no, don’t walk away! . . . Shit. Now we’ll never know.”

_What’s it doing with that machine over there?_

“Think I know?”

_Well, you have been hooked up to lots of machines before._

“I wasn’t exactly paying attention to them at the time.”

_loser_

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

_cuz you are_

“Guess I can’t argue with you there. Hey, look, someone’s coming in.”

_I wonder who it—whoa._

_what the absolute hell is that_

“It’s like a bear, mixed with a T-Rex, mixed with a butterfly.”

_no it’s not are you blind_

_A butterfly??_

_maybe a little bit of bear_

_Hmm . . . Yeah, I can see the bear. Hidden behind everything else._

_but there’s definitely no butterfly are you insane_

“Obviously.”

_fair point_

“But seriously, what is that.”

_You think we know?_

_i know . . ._

_Really?_

_. . . that you’re an idiot_

_Okay, wow—_

“You both are extremely unhelpful, you know.”

_we know_

_We know._

_jinx_

_Dammit._

_language!_

_Shut up._

“Well, whatever the hell that thing is, at least it’s not doing anything right now.”

_That sentence was poorly constructed._

_your face is poorly constructed_

_Your mom is poorly constructed!_

_your mom's face—_

“I think I’m naming it Snuffles.”

_. . . really?_

“Yes! I think it looks like a Snuffles, don’t you?”

_it looks like anything but a snuffles_

“Well, even if it—whoa.”

_holy shit_

_It’s a—_

“It’s a girl!”

_Don't assume gender!_

“Oh, sorry, it's a person with boobies.”

_big boobies_

_Nice boobies._

“Really great boobies . . . maybe we should stop talking about its boobies.”

_do we have to?_

“Yeah we do, because—oh, look, it's waking up!”

_Is calling it an “it” rude?_

_better than assuming its gender_

“Shush! I'm trying to talk to it! Hello, person . . . thing!”

_Thing?_

_you are literally so rude_

_Says you!_

“Well, I didn't want to assume species either!”

_Okay, fair._

_keep talking to it i wanna know what it is_

_And if it can help us escape._

“That's what I was trying to do before you interrupted me!”

_sheesh take a chill pill_

“Sorry about that, strange person who may-or-may-not be a monster-thing, they never learned their manners.”

_That's a total lie._

“Shut up! Anyway, strange person thing who may-or-may-not be a monster-thing, who are you? And how did you end up here?

. . . Hello?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience, and all the comments! I read every single one, even though I didn't reply, and they really kept me going. Life has been very . . . busy, for lack of a better word. But I finally finished the chapter! Yay!
> 
> Please continue to leave comments, if you want to. They are more helpful than you know. I'll try and do better at responding to them, lol. :) Love and appreciate you all!
> 
> Thanks also to my beta, Shadowed_Ceraunophile, who is continually patient with my rambling and overthinking. Love ya!

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment. Or not. It's your life. I can't control you. Do whatever you want. :)


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